“I think they look every bit as good as the Wildwood Knights,” Max remarked, unable to contain himself. Standing taller in his stirrups, he cocked his head at the formations. “And those lines are pretty straight!”
Tweedy glanced up from his perch on a neighboring stool. “One cloud and the whole effect will be ruined,” he sniffed. “You think a bit of sunlight and boot polish is going to fool the Director? Ha! Look at her! She’s only drawing out this charade to punish me for my … my moral implosion!”
Looking out, Max spotted Ms. Richter trailed by a dozen aides and advisers as she inspected the companies and platoons. As a rule, she did not allow commanders to accompany her during reviews; she liked to question the rank and file directly and believed that a superior’s presence stifled candor. At present, the Director was speaking earnestly with a young refugee whose longbow was as tall as its owner. In response to an apparent request, the archer slung her quiver off her shoulder and presented it to Ms. Richter.
Tweedy nearly fell off his stool. “Do you see that?” he exclaimed. “She’s inspecting their arrows! She knows!”
“I’ve already told you that she knows,” said Max wearily.
“Well, that’s it, then,” moaned the hare. “My reputation is officially ruined. The Director thinks I’m a degenerate. She probably lumps me in with that loose and saucy crowd at Cloubert’s, and why shouldn’t she? Evidently, I am the sort of hare who lurks about casinos and wharves giving significant looks to passersby in the hope that they’ll stop and say, ‘Hey there, old fellow, how’d you like to get your paws on some Zenuvian iron?’ ”
“I thought Madam Petra invited you into her sitting room and offered you tea?”
“Well, she did,” the hare admitted. “But I had to do lots of investigating before it came to that. Aside from sullying my own paws, you’re now drowning in debt to a person of questionable character. For all her charm—perhaps because of it—I do not trust that woman. She says she only took your property for collateral, but do you realize she’s probably already sold it for fifty times what you owe her?”
“We’ve been over this, too,” said Max. “Bartering was the only way to get the iron. I can’t do anything else with it, and she promised not to sell it for a year. I’ll get it back.”
“What was this treasure you bartered?” asked YaYa, shifting beneath him.
“My torque,” said Max, touching the bare space at his neck. “The Fomorian made it from Nick’s quills. Do you think I was wrong?”
“You used it in the hope of saving lives,” replied YaYa. “What better use is there?”
A cloud passed before the sun and the battalion’s splendid gleam died a slow, flickering death.
“Well, that’s it,” sighed Tweedy. “We’ll be assigned to guard a pumpkin patch.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” replied Max. “This isn’t the part I’m worried about.”
He gazed at the neighboring hill where Lucia and Cynthia were making final arrangements for the upcoming simulation. The Director had personally dictated the simulation’s parameters, and Max had no idea what they would be. Over the past week, he’d ratcheted up the intensity immensely—conditioning, weapons practice, and the execution of various maneuvers and formations. The formations ensured that the battalion’s firepower could be directed at critical targets and that its defenses—or even retreat—would not devolve into a mad scramble in the midst of battle. Without training and discipline, the Trench Rats would be no better than a mob.
Fortunately, the battalion was not merely willing but eager to put in the additional work. They seemed to take a perverse delight in the fact that Max not only survived assassination, but also showed no trace of the attack. The more superstitious troops considered this a magnificent omen; their commander was apparently invulnerable and naturally they must be, too. When they also learned that YaYa would be joining their ranks and that Zenuvian iron had been procured for arrows and pike tips, confidence spiraled up to the stratosphere. Now, instead of naming their battalion with an apologetic shrug, many were sporting homespun patches with sinful pride. While no two were exactly alike and some of the “rats” were not readily recognizable as such, they still had the intended effect. A black rat—or blob—on an ivory background signaled that its wearer was a member of the Trench Rats. And this had become a very good thing.
Fortune could be fickle, however. Max knew that if they failed this review, the Trench Rats’ station and spirits would sink very low indeed. It would be humiliating to be reassigned. If this occurred, the troops would no doubt find themselves inside the citadel, protecting a building in Old College or perhaps joining civilian patrols about Rowan Township. Necessary work, but the Director would undoubtedly put someone else in charge and redeploy the battalion’s prized and unique assets to more critical functions at the front.
Something caught Max’s eye. A bannerman was waving his standard to signal that the commander could rejoin the group. YaYa descended the hill at a slow, heavy walk. It was an adjustment getting used to her; the ki-rin was far more massive than the biggest destriers and moved with an entirely different gait. And she was a truly ancient creature. Max would never have voiced his misgivings (her offer to serve him was a tremendous honor) but privately he worried if YaYa was really up to this task. Her body was powerful, but it was also arthritic. She grew tired easily and he had yet to urge her beyond the meager trot with which she covered the last fifty yards to where the Director was waiting.
“So, Commander McDaniels,” said Ms. Richter amiably, “shall we see a few demonstrations?”
Max nodded and wheeled the ki-rin around to face his troops. When he blew his horn, the entire company broke apart like the pieces of a machine, each company and platoon jogging to their assigned positions in the practice trench while the ballistae were wheeled into place behind them. They faced a broad field where numbered targets had been set up at various distances and intervals.
“All archers,” said Ms. Richter. “Their nearest target.”
The signal was relayed to the company commanders and lieutenants. Seconds later, six hundred bowstrings were drawn in unison and held until Sarah gave the command to fire. They did so in a single whistling volley that thudded into their targets with a truly satisfying sound. A few had missed, but the vast majority struck their mark.
“Company two, target eleven,” said Ms. Richer calmly.
Ajax relayed the order to his company and gave the command. Within ten seconds, arrows were nocked, bows raised high, and a volley arced toward a target some hundred yards away. About half hit their mark at such a distance: decent if not outstanding. One of Ms. Richter’s aides jotted down the result.
“Company four is under attack by vyes,” said the Director. “They are to fire two arrows apiece as fast as they can. Starting … now.”
The ensuing arrows flew with considerably less uniformity and precision than previous volleys. Max was less concerned with the speed than he was with target selection and accuracy. The Director was clearly probing to see if the archers knew the proper distances at which to fire at a charging vye. One had to take into account the creature’s speed, and conventional wisdom held that even an expert bowman would only be able to get off two shots on a closing vye before it was upon them. The optimal distances were at one hundred yards and twenty-five yards. Gazing out, Max exhaled as most fired at the proper targets. Some missed, some plunged into the wrong haystacks, but the general performance was respectable.